The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day,The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair.The rest clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast.They thought, "if only Casey could but get a whack at that.We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake;and the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake.

So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat;for there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all.And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball.

And when the dust had lifted,and men saw what had occurred,there was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

it pounded through on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat;for Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place,there was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,no stranger in the crowd could doubt t'was Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.

Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,and Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped --"That ain't my style," said Casey.

"Strike one!" the umpire said.From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore.

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand,and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity, great Casey's visage shone,he stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on.

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew,but Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,and they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate. He pounds, with cruel violence, his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, and now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright. The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.And, somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout,

but there is no joy in Mudville -- mighty Casey has struck out.

--------------------

Mike F.

May the Irish hills caress you.May her lakes and rivers bless you.May the luck of the Irish enfold you.May the blessings of Saint Patrick behold you.

Where the wave of moonlight glossesThe dim grey sands with light,Far off by furthest RossesWe foot it all the night,Weaving olden dances,Mingling hands and mingling glancesTill the moon has taken flight;To and fro we leapAnd chase the frothy bubbles,While the world is full of troublesAnd is anxious in its sleep.Come away, O human child!To the waters and the wildWith a faery, hand in hand,For the world's morefully of weeping than youcan understand.

Where the wandering water gushesFrom the hills above Glen-Car,.In pools among the rushesThat scarce could bathe a star,We seek for slumbering troutAnd whispering in their earsGive them unquiet dreams;Leaning softly outFrom ferns that drop their tearsOver the young streams.Come away, O human child!To to waters and the wildWith a faery, hand in hand,For to world's morefully of weeping than youcan understand.

Away with us he's going,The solemn-eyed:He'll hear no more the lowingOf the calves on the warm hillsideOr the kettle on the hobSing peace into his breast,Or see the brown mice bobRound and round the oatmeal-chest.For be comes, the human child,To the waters and the wildWith a faery, hand in hand,from a world more full of weeping than you.

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My heart's in the highlandsMy heart is not hereMy heart's in the highlandsA-chasing the deer--Robert Burns

Thig crioch air an saoghal, ach mairidh gaol is ceòl.The world will pass away, but love and music last forever.

There are several I could post here. Several of them by Mr. E.A. Poe. There are a great many pieces that get airtime here on CRN as well. But the three that come to mind when I'm asked this question are "The Bells", "The Raven", and "The Road Not Taken". I will trust the readers of this thread to know the appropriate names behind the hands that penned each of those three. The one that gives me the most pervasive earworms, however, is the following. I am under the assumption that this 1849 piece is in public domain:

THE BELLSby Edgar Allan Poe

Hear the sledges with the bells-Silver bells!What a world of merriment their melody foretells!How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,In the icy air of night!While the stars that oversprinkleAll the heavens, seem to twinkleWith a crystalline delight;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the tintinnabulation that so musically wellsFrom the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells-From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells,Golden bells!What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!Through the balmy air of nightHow they ring out their delight!From the molten-golden notes,And an in tune,What a liquid ditty floatsTo the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloatsOn the moon!Oh, from out the sounding cells,What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!How it swells!How it dwellsOn the Future! how it tellsOf the rapture that impelsTo the swinging and the ringingOf the bells, bells, bells,Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,Bells, bells, bells-To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells-Brazen bells!What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!In the startled ear of nightHow they scream out their affright!Too much horrified to speak,They can only shriek, shriek,Out of tune,In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,Leaping higher, higher, higher,With a desperate desire,And a resolute endeavor,Now–now to sit or never,By the side of the pale-faced moon.Oh, the bells, bells, bells!What a tale their terror tellsOf Despair!How they clang, and clash, and roar!What a horror they outpourOn the bosom of the palpitating air!Yet the ear it fully knows,By the twanging,And the clanging,How the danger ebbs and flows:Yet the ear distinctly tells,In the jangling,And the wrangling,How the danger sinks and swells,By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-Of the bells-Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,Bells, bells, bells-In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells-Iron Bells!What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!In the silence of the night,How we shiver with affrightAt the melancholy menace of their tone!For every sound that floatsFrom the rust within their throatsIs a groan.And the people–ah, the people-They that dwell up in the steeple,All AloneAnd who, tolling, tolling, tolling,In that muffled monotone,Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone-They are neither man nor woman-They are neither brute nor human-They are Ghouls:And their king it is who tolls;And he rolls, rolls, rolls,RollsA paean from the bells!And his merry bosom swellsWith the paean of the bells!And he dances, and he yells;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the paean of the bells-Of the bells:Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the throbbing of the bells-Of the bells, bells, bells-To the sobbing of the bells;Keeping time, time, time,As he knells, knells, knells,In a happy Runic rhyme,To the rolling of the bells-Of the bells, bells, bells:To the tolling of the bells,Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-Bells, bells, bells-To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

You can't have one favorite poem, if you read poetry at all -- it's impossible.

Here's one that grabbed me so hard when I was all of 17, that I set it to music. It still moves me greatly, now that I've had reason in my real life to feel what it means at first hand.

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part, Nay I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free; Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath, When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, When faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And innocence is closing up his eyes, -Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!

You're right, can't have just one. . . here are more I absolutely adore!

The Panther

Ogden Nash

The panther is like a leopardExcept it hasn't been peppered.Should you behold a panther crouchPrepare to say ouch.Better yet, if called by a panther,Don't anther.

The Romantic Age

Ogden Nash

This one is entering her teens,Ripe for sentimental scenes,Has picked a gangling unripe male,Sees herself in bridal veil,Presses lips and tosses head,Declares she's not too young to wed,Informs you pertly you forgetRomeo and Juliet.Do not argue, do not shout;Remind her how that one turned out.